Who Binds The Spirits ?



thoughts  scorching around the bend
 an abandoned apple
 a thousand milligrams
a paper plane with broken nose cone

great chasm lie dormant

without expectations of bliss to make it to the poetry museum
 reflected in two or three chance meetings
deepish sleep
no shocks
oh what joys
Borges to my left
bananas to my right

the comedy of bones the laughter of skeletons

intangible forms rely on light
to cast shadows
 then force it
somewhere out the back it's there
hidden in a mildewed box
of piled ephemera
cast your gaze more closely
an old image some  pristine vision

a pastoral scene something pre industrial
a romantic evocation of toil with a full cast and crew  waiting to be appointed
the  parish beadle chatting with the dowager over instant coffee
and here comes young master Pip, costumes ready, location and sound.
somewhere else floats a popinjay, a spectre and a escaped convict with rusty manacles.

if it won't come force it roast it fry it then boil and bake it
chance meetings won't occur without physical actions
stack highbrow visionaries so they can be closer to their gods
bring up the miners scrub the whites of their eyes
take fresh offerings to the base of the shrine
wrap shiny stones in vine leaves something purple perhaps
take extra special care over the crevasse
throw wide your net to increase chances of capturing escapees
light up a pyre for Jupiter strike drums introduce intoxication
encourage wildness embrace your enemy warmly
now they are no longer your enemy
the drums increase the atmosphere is changing, stars hang heavy like ripe fruits
you pluck one and the sky collapses  multi coloured
gushes through the ritual
instinct to run
but you stay and accept your fate
a boat appears from the jungle manned by the local shaman